


The Sun Rising

by DoreyG



Category: Grayson (Comics)
Genre: Awkward Kissing, Canon-Typical Violence, Dealing with Emotions Sensibly is for Nerds, Developing Relationship, Exhibitionism, Fake Marriage, Kissing, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mystery, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 11:27:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6656035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A rather unique location?" Grayson, who is apparently incapable of keeping his mouth shut even under pain of death, asks with that certain obtuse wrinkle of his forehead that inevitably means he's several steps behind, "are we supposed to guess, or...?"</p><p>"A resort for married couples," Matron answers sharply, but the roll of her eyes is fond. Too fond, "gay married couples, to be exact."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sun Rising

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Fifth Small Fandoms Big Bang, because every pairing needs plotty fake married fic and this is the hill I will die on. Hope you all enjoy!
> 
> The beautiful art can be found [Here!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6659302) And a fanmix for the fic can be found [Here!](http://8tracks.com/lightning_skies/the-sun-rising) Go, appreciate how lovely it is~.

"Your next mission has arrived," Matron starts brusquely the moment they're standing in front of her, eyes narrow and just slightly tired as they trace over his face, "a new piece of tech has surfaced in a rather unique location, and you two are the only ones fit to locate it and secure it for the good of Spyral."

"A rather unique location?" Grayson, who is apparently incapable of keeping his mouth shut even under pain of death, asks with that certain obtuse wrinkle of his forehead that inevitably means he's several steps behind, "are we supposed to guess, or...?"

"A resort for married couples," Matron answers sharply, but the roll of her eyes is fond. Too fond, "gay married couples, to be exact."

"Wait," Grayson stutters, as he allows himself a rare blink at the new and shocking information, "you mean that we have to get...?"

"We have to _pretend_ to be married," he huffs, perhaps a touch too quickly but that is _only_ out of a desire to get this whole ridiculous business over with, "for the sake of the mission."

"Congratulations," Matron says wryly, and gives him a look like she's not fooled at all. Which is ridiculous, he's not _trying_ to fool anybody, "the nature of the tech is unclear, as of yet, but looks to have extremely useful healing applications that could benefit Spyral greatly. You set off tomorrow. Good luck."

 

\--

 

"I get the impression that you don't like me very much."

The car is tiny, and hot, and bumps a little at every sharp turn. Grayson is a warm presence right next to him, his eyes bright and the smell of his cologne thick in the car. They have been driving for roughly two hours, establishing a firm cover as all good spies must.

He must admit, he didn't expect it to be this... Challenging.

"That is irrelevant to the mission," he answers shortly, and tries to find some small amusement in Grayson's sulky huff, "do you remember your cover?"

"I'm not an idiot," Grayson grumbles, and hurries on before he can do more than arch a dubious eyebrow, "I'm Richard 'Rick' Gray-Namurr. 23 years old, personal trainer at an _extremely_ upper class gym. You?"

"Alexander Gray-Namurr. 30 years old, business consultant for a company that specializes in personal security," he taps his fingers on the wheel, refuses to look sideways to where Grayson is staring at him questioningly, "regular gym goer, which is where I met you. Ours was a whirlwind courtship, so we're still largely learning about each other. That should explain away any awkwardness."

"You hope," Grayson reminds him, but is smiling when he deigns to send a brief glare across. That smile... He'll have to watch that smile, it's the kind of thing that could so easily attract unwanted attention, "hey, Tiger?"

" _Alexander_ ," he corrects shortly, tearing his eyes back to the road.

"...Alexander. Was any of that true?"

"Do not be ridiculous," he huffs, and stares straight ahead even as Grayson sighs beseechingly besides him, "I am a spy, I have never respected personal security in my life."

 

\--

 

The resort, when they get to it, is not an entirely unpleasant place. It’s sprawling and sunlit, a gathering of cottages and other ephemera around a sandy courtyard. It is not entirely to his tastes, but then so few things are. He sighs, drops the bag at his feet as Grayson bounces obnoxiously on his heels at his side.

"Welcome!" A girl, her dark hair pulled back in a professional ponytail, chirps as she bounces up to them. When she sees Grayson her eyes widen a little with disappointment, but she soon covers it. He appreciates that, discretion is remarkably hard to find when Dick Grayson is involved, "I'm guessing you're booked in for a stay? Though, of course, who could really blame you for wanting to have a look around."

"It is a _very_ nice place," Grayson grins, rather distractingly.

"We're here to stay," he says shortly, with a warning glance as the girl's eyes widen even further. There's no need to encourage that kind of behaviour, especially when they're supposed to be on a _mission_ , "there should be a reservation. Under Gray-Namurr?"

"Let me see... Ah, yes, in cottage 15!" The girl consults her clipboard, grins brightly as her head comes back up. She's a pretty little thing, he barely resists the urge to glance sideways to Grayson for his reaction, "Wonderful. I'm Stacy, and I'll be taking care of you on your stay. Do you mind leaving your bags here for the moment?"

"A little-"

"Not at all!" Grayson chirps over him this time, elbowing him so quickly in the ribs that he barely has the time to cover his wince, "this seems like a nice place, I'm _sure_ that security is up to scratch!"

"...Okay then!" Stacy chirps, again only looking confused for a matter of moments. Again, admirable. She'd do well as a spy, if she could just stop permanently baring her teeth, "I'll show you to your cabin, and Billy will be here to pick up your bags shortly. Do you want me to tell you about several of the things that our resort offers while we walk?"

"We already-"

"Oh, please!"

"...Alright then!"

He manages to maintain a wry smirk until Stacy, resignedly confused again, turns bouncily on her heel. And then huffs a sigh under his breath, glances sideways to where Grayson is grinning ever so brightly at him, "did you really have to comment on the security? That's one of the subjects we should be _avoiding_."

"I'm a dumb piece of muscle, swept away into a sudden romance with a dangerous and brooding businessman. It's the type of thing I _would_ comment on," Grayson points out, and somehow his bright amusement just serves to make the point even _more_ annoying, "and, on the subject of sudden romance, we're supposed to be on our honeymoon. Smile a bit more, would you?"

And, with that, he bounces off like a little cloud. Bright, and drifting, and scudding distractedly across his field of vision. All he can do is pause for a moment, to sigh under his breath again, and follow. Inevitably, like Icarus towards the sun.

 

\--

 

"So," Grayson chirps cheerfully, once they've reached their cottage - small, twee, nicely situated away from any probing eyes - and shooed the increasingly distracted Stacy away, "the plan of action. I assume you've already got one?"

"Hm," he says grumpily, and crosses his arms over his chest. Perhaps a touch immature, but still more mature than Grayson's antics in the entire time that they’ve known each other. He does rather feel that he can be forgiven, "are you sure that you actually have the attention span to hear it?"

Grayson doesn't glare, doesn't scowl. Grayson only sighs, rolls his eyes like he's already braced for every barb coming his way.

"Are you sure," it's enough to send something vicious bubbling in his blood, something mean and small and jealous that he was sure he'd crushed several years ago, "that you don't want to go flirt with that Stacy girl some more? She was very pretty, I'm sure-"

"Tiger."

Too much, he has revealed too much and has behaved shamefully while doing so. He bites his tongue, ducks his head and catches his breath as Grayson just continues looking at him with those ever so infuriating eyes "...My apologies, that was unacceptable."

"Stacy is very nice and very pretty, I'm sure, but currently I only have eyes for you," Grayson says softly, but smiles soft forgiveness at him - forgiveness that he doesn't deserve, forgiveness that is somewhat _maddening_ \- when he looks back up, "and we're getting a little too into character. The plan?"

"It is quite simple," he nods, glad to get back to business after that little... Slip. Unacceptable for any spy, _shameful_ for him, "during the day we act like we are in love, two men swept up by a whirlwind romance and enjoying every moment of it. At night we go back to who we are."

"Spies," Grayson smiles wryly, shakes his head, "unless you want me to put on latex and backflip for you several times, of course."

"That would probably break our cover," he sighs, but knows by Grayson's quirked mouth that he detects the humour underneath it. Strange, he's not quite sure how to feel about Grayson's unceasing ability to see beneath, "we investigate the hidden tech, try to unpick what they mean to do with it and eventually secure it for Spyral. It should be an easy enough mission, if we both keep our heads, but remember-"

"We can't trust anybody," Grayson interrupts, and only gives him a cheeky grin when he sighs reprovingly, "don't worry, I've only had it drilled into me since I was ten."

"They should've started earlier," he says, pointedly.

"Well, you know the circus. They always have such strange ideas about _everything_ ," Grayson just keeps grinning. Yet again, he is reminded that this entire business may be significantly harder than it currently seems, "this should be fun. Hey, you hungry yet?"

\--

 

Grayson, as it turns out, can talk even while eating. Grayson, as it turns out, can _monologue_ even while eating. The food offered is copious and somewhat messy, and yet he manages to keep up a near constant babble anyway - even with his cheeks bulging, his mouth stuffed. By all rights it should be quite terribly annoying.

...No, it is quite terribly annoying.

It _is_.

He draws in a deep breath, as Grayson starts on yet another story about the circus and gymnastics and all kinds of frivolous things, and gently kicks the man under their private table. He starts, so hard that one of the servers passing by gives them a confused glance, but soon recovers - grins at him ever so brightly, "darling, I notice that you're not talking much. Am I boring you?"

"You could never bore me," he purrs, and reminds himself that he does not find Grayson attractive. Because he does not, the very thought of it is something ridiculous, "your stories are so fascinating, and contain so many backflips."

"I like backflips," Grayson says, perhaps a touch defensively, but maintains his smile as the server shakes his head and gets back to business besides them, "and are you staring at me because you're so _enraptured_ by my stories, then?"

"Partially," he allows- no, lies. Grayson's stories are not interesting, they are the endless prattlings of a rich little boy that he has heard a million times before. The only difference, he will allow, is the amount of improbable contortions, "and partially because I'm worried about you, my angel."

"Worried about me?" Grayson looks amused at the angel comment, but lets it pass.

"You are talking so much, and with such animation," he chuckles softly, reaches across - largely on instinct - to cover Grayson's warm hand with his own, "I am worried that you will forget what you are doing, and choke on your food."

" _Are_ you now?" Grayson asks innocently, only going a little wide eyed at the sudden contact. More resilient than he expected, he tries his very hardest not to be at all impressed by it, "worried? Terrified? Petrified down to the _bone_?"

"I wouldn't go that far," he says, perhaps a touch sharply. Manages a smile, as triumph flashes brief and hot in Grayson's eyes, "but..."

"If you want me to stop talking, and stop risking my throat, then you should do something about it," Grayson says daringly, and actually _turns_ his hand - lacing their fingers together in an openly teasing challenge, "go on, my dear, shut me up."

He drops his affable persona, for just a second, allows himself a low glare at Grayson's immaturity.

"...You know, if you _dare_."

And then leans forward, quite suddenly, catches Grayson's mouth just as he smugly closes it. The kiss isn't the best one that he's experienced, but it's still... Something. Grayson's mouth is slightly wet against him, firm with surprise. He tastes slightly of his food, but slightly more of something fresh and tempting and uniquely _him_ underneath. His skin is soft, somehow welcoming under his.

When he draws back, he's surprised to find that he's slightly breathless. He looks to Grayson, and finds the man's eyes closed - dark eyelashes fanned out against his cheeks. A moment, and then he opens them again - stares at him, wide and blue and slightly glassy, before returning to his food without a word.

They don't talk at all of backflips, for the rest of the meal.

 

\--

 

Grayson does not really talk to him for the rest of the night. And he knows he should be relieved by that, he knows that he should be _thrilled_ that Grayson has finally learned what protocol means, but... It grinds against him when it shouldn’t, a certain twitch that screams of something wrong. 

_Ugh_. He has no idea what Grayson is doing to him, but he is almost certain that he does not like it.

“Are you sulking? “ he asks brusquely, as they male their way around the edge of a seemingly empty cabin.

“Aren’t we supposed to be keeping radio silence?” Grayson mouths off, like the snotty little rich boy he so rarely seems, but gives a resigned sigh when he only arches his eyebrow in reply, “no, I’m not. What on earth would I be sulking about?”

“I don’t know, “ he says pointedly, and smoothly ducks under a window as Grayson flips ever so smoothly over it, “you’ve just been silent since dinner, since I- further established our cover. And I find myself worried when you are so. You must admit, it is hardly a normal state of affairs.”

“Hm,” Grayson says, deliberately vague, and tests out the porch railings with one hand, “I suppose not.”

There’s a long, infuriatingly silent pause as they both climb up.

“It was nothing personal,” he’s forced to break it, forced to break his usual carefully stoic wall, as Grayson tries the door handle with light fingers, “we have a job to do, Grayson, and sometimes in the course of that job we have to do certain things. I apologise if I shocked you, truly, but I can assure you that it was only-“

“The door is locked,” Grayson says quietly, and gives him a flat look in the dim light. Somehow, perhaps from years of carefully honed survival, he gets the sense of quiet disappointment, “and I knew, about the whole job thing. I was just... Thinking, that’s all.”

He has never cared about disappointing people before, has always considered it a righteous punishment for a world that has never once been kind to him. But now, with Grayson standing so quietly across from him... He reaches out, pops the lock in something of a daze, “thinking is not entirely necessary in this job.”

So you keep saying,” Grayson lip curls, he turns to the suddenly gaping maw of the door with his shoulders firmly set, “come on, let’s get this over with.”

And he could, he really could, just leave it there. Could follow Grayson silently into the room, do their jobs without a word more and return to their cottage in absolute silence. Could complete the rest of their mission with frosty professionalism, and return to sharp antagonism and bitter frustration when it was over.

“I’m twenty nine,” he says, before he can even think about it, and tolerates Grayson confused expression as he turns back, “earlier, you asked if any of my cover was true. That part is not entirely. I am twenty nine from the date I chose as my birthday. “

“Oh,” Grayson says. And, for the first time in hours, smiles his usual blinding smile, “alright then.”

“Yes.”

“ _Indeed_.”

They continue on into the cottage. But this time the silence is warm, and his stomach aches so much less.

 

\--

 

By the time they get back to their cottage Grayson is yawning. No, not just yawning. His mouth keeps _gaping_ open, pointed and aggressive, every time he happens to glance at him. He keeps swaying on his feet, in an overdramatic and practically laughable way. He keeps looking like a _puppy_ every single time they happen to glance into each other's eyes, sad and ever so slightly put upon.

It would be almost amusing, if he wasn't so... No, he is annoyed. Ignore the warmth in his gut, annoyance is the only sensible response to such a thing.

"For a vigilante," he comments casually, as they lock the door behind them and Grayson gives yet another absurdly overdramatic unhinging of his jaw, "you do not seem very good at handling late nights."

"I'm a spy now, not a vigilante," Grayson points out, and grins a suspiciously bright grin for a man who is apparently absurdly close to falling absolutely dead to the world, "and spies can get tired. How long before we have to show ourselves again?"

"We are on a honeymoon, and thus can sleep somewhat later than the norm, so..." He glances outside, at the rising sun, makes a brief calculation in his head, "three to four hours? Aiming to rise, and thus show ourselves, at ten in the morning."

" _Ten_...?"

"You are a personal trainer, I am the kind of man who goes to a personal trainer," he points out, and restrains a smile as Grayson insists on pouting ridiculously at his cruelty, "we would linger no later than that, and even that is a risk. Really, Grayson, I am being _kind_."

"Yeah," Grayson huffs, still pouting in that ridiculously endearing- in that ridiculous way, " _kind_."

"I can take the couch," he says, smirking with mercy, "you can take the bed."

But, as ever with Grayson, his mercy does not seem to be appreciated. As he prepares to move away the man reaches out, grabs his arm and fixes him with a grin so beseeching that even he has to pause and catch his breath at it, "is that really necessary?"

"...Well," he says, somewhat discombobulated, "if you don't wish to sleep-"

"Not that," Grayson says hastily, and even through the discombobulation he has to hide a smirk at the sudden wideness of his eyes, "the bed is king sized, I checked. It's likely to be a lot more comfortable than the average couch. We can share it, if you want?"

He stares for a second, taken aback. A little voice in his mind, a cruel and nervous one that has been his only companion since childhood, screams the sound of danger.

"...I mean, only if you want. I'm not that keen on it, anyway. If you want to put your back out, it's your business and I'm not gonna-"

His gut, however, gives a slight tremble at _not_ doing it. And so, for the first time in his life, he swallows over the fear in his head and takes a careful step forwards, "that sounds sensible, for once. Best to be as healthy as we can for the days ahead, after all."

"Yes," Grayson says, and his ever so bright smile flows back across his face like the sun coming up, "yes, for the days ahead."

 

\--

 

When he wakes up the next morning it is to Richard Grayson's face, startlingly beautiful on the pillow. Still slightly numbed by sleep, despite his training he has never been much of a morning person, he finds himself captivated - by that dark hair against the pillow, the delicate sweep of his eyelashes, even the way his full lips have dropped open. He likes to lie to himself that he doesn't register attraction, doesn't _feel_ such base urges, but-

Two things happen, almost at once, to startle him out of his dreaming state. _Grayson_ lets out a loud snort, reaches up one hand to rub roughly at his nose. And his implant, still in his head, lets out a loud and demonstrative beep.

Back to business, as usual.

As Grayson wakes up suddenly, snorting and bleary eyed and terribly attractive- _unattractive_ , he smoothly rolls over. Taps his ear, and stares up at the ceiling as he tries to gather his mind back to some sort of sense, "good morning."

"Are you being watched?" Matron's voice comes through, crisp and only somewhat weary around the edges, "or are we able to speak freely?"

"We-"

"I swept the cottage for bugs yesterday," Grayson interrupts sleepily, drags himself up to a sitting position and then immediately falls off the bed, "there was - _ow_ \- nothing. They don't suspect anything, _yet_."

"...Thank you, Agent 37," he says, and narrowly resists the urge to lean over the side of the bed and check if the man - idiotically dazed as he apparently is - has done himself any serious damage, "we are free to speak, Matron. Go ahead."

"Good," Matron says wryly, sounding almost as if she expected Grayson to fall off the bed and make a fool of himself, "how is the mission progressing so far?"

"It is..." He pauses for a long second, as Grayson lets out an unholy noise from the floor. Only carries on again when the man narrowly pulls himself up, and starts to drag himself over to the bathroom on hands and knees, "progressing. We did not find anything on our preliminary sweep, but-"

"You knew that was unlikely from the start."

"Indeed," he resists the urge to smile, further resists the urge to glance towards the open bathroom door where the water is running, "and we do have a plan as to how to continue. We shall continue searching, and shall continue to maintain our cover. Hopefully results shall be produced soon."

"That would be nice," Matron says wryly, and then lets out a noise that's almost a laugh as the water suddenly stops running in the bathroom, "any other problems that I should know about?"

"Not to my knowledge," he says carefully, still watching the door in a way that he knows is foolish but that he can't quite help, "no."

"Moral dilemmas?"

He, against his will, snorts lowly in reply.

"Allergic reactions?" Matron's tone takes on a slightly smirking note, obviously amused by his brief lack of respect, "Medical issues? _Personal_ problems that I can gossip about with the girls at the school?"

"Gossip?" He says wryly, and tries not to let his breath catch as Grayson suddenly appears in the bathroom door again - sleepy eyed, and with wet hair, "dear Matron, I will provide you with nothing of the sort.”

 

\--

 

"Are you alright?" He finally loses the battle to his better judgement as they're walking to breakfast, Richard- _Grayson_ whistling cheerfully and still looking ever so bleary eyed, "your sudden fall off the bed seemed rather hard. Are you sure that you have not-?"

"What?" Grayson blinks at him sleepily, and then gives a bright laugh and shakes his head, "no, I'm fine. Just... Never been much of a morning person, that's all."

He ignores the sudden warmth in his belly, at that sound. Focuses on more sensible things, such as the rustle of the air through the trees or the satisfying memory of breaking a man's nose, "that... Does not surprise me, considering your background."

"My background?" Grayson looks at him for a moment, focused, and then gives a bright grin. So bright, brighter than the sun rising, "ah, you've done your _research_ then."

"A vital part of espionage is being prepared," he says, as measuredly as he can, and refuses to allow himself to do anything more than look sideways - for if Grayson is brighter than the sun, he must be even more blinding, "and I am a very good spy."

"Wasn't doubting you for a second, Agent One."

A long pause, and then he glances sideways again. Grayson is still watching him, almost expectantly - as if he's waiting for the questions to start flowing "...Is Batman as bad with mornings as you, if I may ask?"

"You may," Grayson says playfully, and actually _winks_ in the corner of his eye - it's a good thing that there are few structures around them, and so he cannot risk walking into one of them with the shock, "and he's worse. Br- Batman can't even _face_ mornings without two cups of coffee, I'm practically a morning person by comparison."

"That..." He fights back a smile, keeps walking in a smooth and entirely undistracted way, "is somewhat terrifying."

"Everything about Batman is," Grayson chirps, almost affectionately, "by design, of course. Oh, the stories I could tell you about what he gets up to..."

"Well," he says carefully, against the little voice in his brain - that mean one, yet again - that is screaming that this is a bad idea and a distraction and a thousand other less than sensible things, "I _have_ always liked horror stories."

"I-" Grayson halts, actually halts right in the middle of the path, and gives him a slightly confused blink as if he's not sure what to do with the sudden show of humanity, "Okay. Gotta say, I wasn't expecting _that_."

"After the mission, of course," he says, almost cheerfully, and keeps walking on at an entirely professional pace.

"After the mission," it takes a long moment for Grayson to catch up to him. But, when he does, a small and helplessly attractive smile is curving his lips "...Of course."

 

\--

 

"I," he starts about half an hour later, watching Rich- _Grayson_ shovel cereal into his mouth with a glee that is slightly terrifying to see, "did not know that a person could eat that much cereal in one sitting."

"I suppose I've distracted you too much in the morning for you to notice, darling," Grayson purrs, perfectly in character as their server - the same slightly suspicious looking boy from last night, possibly going by the name of Billy - drifts by, "this is actually _moderate_ for me."

"Moderate?" He repeats lightly, and doesn't have to fake his shock. For somebody so delicate, so lightly built as all acrobats are, Grayson can eat an entirely _alarming_ amount of food, "you mean that you frequently eat _more_ than that?"

Grayson does not answer, at least not with words. Only sends him an amused look from underneath his eyelashes, smirks around the spoon.

"How," he starts deliberately, and wrestles down his emerging blush before it can show on his face, "have you not exploded by this point? That is absurd, that is almost _obscene_."

Grayson considers for a second, swallows enthusiastically as he does so "...Good metabolism?"

"You-"

"Good morning!" Stacy chirps, bouncing up to them before he can get any further into his surprised insult and before Grayson can smirk hard enough to do himself an injury, "I hope you're both feeling bright and breezy. Good night last night?"

He glances at Grayson, Grayson glances right back at him.

" _Very_ ," and manages the most charming version of a leer that he has ever seen, distracting enough that he has to briefly grab his thighs underneath the table and breath steadyingly through his nose, "and great breakfast this morning. Send my compliments to the chef!"

"My dear," he cuts in carefully, when he's sure that his voice won't shake on every word, "you have eaten nothing but the cereal, I'm pretty sure that the chef had no hand in that."

"...Fair enough! But send my compliments to the chef anyway, I'm _sure_ that they're an absolutely lovely person," Grayson beams at him, from across that table, soon turns that beam on the briefly narrow eyed Stacy as if sensing her sudden confusion, "I'm guessing that you have a wide range of things for us to do here, after breakfast?"

"I-" Stacy blinks for a moment, caught in the glare. Manages a somewhat dreamy smile, after several seconds of thought, "of course! We have a wide range of pursuits, tailored to fit every single guest! If you wish you may go swimming, cycling or horse riding. And, if you'd rather not go outside, we have a wide range of spas and-"

He's torn between jealousy and sympathy, and settles on sympathy as the far more acceptable reaction. He leans back in his chair, exactly like a spoiled businessman, and allows his eyes to wander as she babbles on...

Allows his eyes to wander to Grayson. Bright beam still on his face, so distracting that even he can't quite gather his thoughts in the face of it.

 

\--

 

They end up, because Richard Grayson cannot be anything other than Richard Grayson and he cannot be anything other than himself, going to the resort gym. It is a smaller room than he would like, with few pieces of equipment designed to suit the connoisseur, but Grayson immediately beams at it like it's the most exciting thing ever - jumps up onto a rather old looking balance beam without a single blink.

"Careful," he warns, because he's not entirely sure about trusting his partner's life to something that decrepit, and chooses a perfectly ordinary looking treadmill instead, "You don't want that to collapse underneath you, my dear."

"It's solid," Grayson grins, brightly, and goes up on one foot - seemingly testing his balance in the most delicately annoying of ways, "I should know, I've had these sort of things collapse out from under me before."

"My poor dear," he says, almost sincerely. Luckily it's hidden behind the reminder, Grayson goes back to standing on both of his feet and pouts ever so briefly, "I trust you were not injured? I haven't seen any scars on your tender flesh..."

"That," Grayson purrs, pout fading into something that would be called a smirk on any other face, "may be because you haven't _checked_ everywhere yet, darling."

"I-" He says, suddenly caught.

"Perhaps you should be more thorough," Grayson continues, ever so casually. And, as he stares, does a casual backflip and then a spin - laughing, at his ever so delicate flouting of the rules of gravity. Like an artist of the trapeze, so beautiful and distracting that it can't be anything over than dangerous.

He stops himself, before he gulps. Ducks his head, and starts the treadmill up before Grayson can catch his blush.

 

\--

 

They don't talk much for the rest of the afternoon, Grayson casually turning head over heels and he keeping up a steady pace on the treadmill, but that suits his purposes fine. Exercise gives him a chance to clear his head, a chance to refocus his mind away from any distracting thoughts. It also gives him an excuse for any flushes that may occur, he was _pushing_ himself and it is simply a physical reaction and nothing more.

No matter that he's not pushing himself, at all. No matter, that Grayson is probably smart enough to see through the lie anyway.

"We still have a few hours before dinner," Grayson says casually when they finally wrap up, toweling off his hair as they stroll through the resort like a young couple deep in love, "any plans until then, my dove?"

He covers the wince at the nickname with a fond smile, takes Grayson's hand and leans in to whisper ever so lovingly in his ear: "we should establish our cover further."

"Make sure that we're seen?" Grayson asks, voice pitched just as low, "assuage all suspicion?"

" _Exactly_."

"Well then," Grayson pulls back, grins an ever so bright grin at him. As ever over these past few days, the alarm of danger fast approaching sounds loudly in his head, "I have _just_ the idea."

 _Just_ the idea turns out to be a sitting room, small enough to be intimate but big enough to avoid crowds, deep in the main body of the hotel. Couples sit around on various loungers, deep in loving conversation. In the corner the serving boy from last night, Billy with the suspicious eyes, attempts to look as if he is focusedly reading a book. He's not very good at it, he's obviously been on the same page for a while and he keeps glancing up to-

His mental critique is interrupted, as Grayson gives a low and rumbling laugh and drags him down to sit on a plush chaise lounge. They tumble close together, almost too close with their knees bumping. He blinks, briefly makes as if to glance back to Billy...

And Grayson kisses him. Fast and playful, the action of a man still in the honeymoon stage of love. He takes in a deep breath, shocked at the suddenness, and Grayson responds by kissing him again - deeper this time, the press of his tongue encouraging sin so surely that it is a miracle the world hasn't fallen into dissolution already.

Grayson draws back eventually, flicks the hair from his eyes and smiles warmly - almost challengingly - into his face, "Alexander."

" _Richard_ ," he whispers sincerely, almost worshipfully, in reply - and pulls the man back in, as surely as the sun does rise.

 

\--

 

"You know," Richard- Grayson, _Grayson_ says playfully several hours later, eyes twinkling even through the dark, "I'm starting to think that it's a _good_ thing I don't know your real name."

He arches a slow eyebrow, turns around as far as he can on his perch, "oh?"

"If I moan the wrong thing," Grayson purrs cheerfully, having no such issues with balance. Acrobats, always more comfortable acting like birds than actual human beings, "when we're... Establishing cover, it'll sound like a slightly cheesy nickname as opposed to a slip. We should be able to avoid all suspicion."

"Hm," he says, pretending to think, and carefully edges a little further along the ledge, "an acceptable theory, Grayson. Except Tiger _is_ my real name."

"What?" Grayson asks, and his eyes go comically wide. Not wide enough to knock him off, though, he's far too practiced for such silliness as that, " _really_?"

"Idiot," he says, fondly, and keeps edging - with far less practice, but far more focus, "does that surprise you?"

"A... Little," Grayson mutters. And, after a long moment of what he assumes is foolish staring, keeps edging along himself, "I'm not going to lie to you, agent one, I always thought that the name Tiger sounded a _little_ bit like a bad stage name from seventies porn."

He glances briefly over his shoulder again, as far as he dares, to offer a glare. Grayson shrugs innocently, gives him a far too bright smile, "you've watched a lot of that, have you?"

" _Well_..."

"You really are an idiot," he sighs softly, and is surprised that he still feels that fondness in his chest. Is even more surprised that Grayson apparently picks up on it, judging by the brief bubble of his laugh "...My mother didn't give me a name. Or, if she did, didn't bother to share it with me. Tiger is the name that I chose for myself."

"I-" Grayson yelps. And he's surprised, for a second, to hear the brief slip of feet on stone "...Oh."

"Are you alright?" He asks, surprised again to find himself genuinely concerned.

"Oh, yeah, don't worry about me! Almost fallen off _far_ worse things," Grayson coughs a little, awkwardly. Audibly readjusts his position on the wall, as if to assuage any worry that he may be feeling, "if that's the case, then I'm sorry that I compared your actually real name to a seventies porn star."

"Hm," he says, and finds that he can't stop smiling - brighter and brighter, like the world isn't actually a terrible place, "I chose the name Tiger because it was independent, strong and brave. Trust me, Agent 37, I don't think you could ever hurt me all that much."

 

\--

 

Grayson falls asleep almost immediately after they get back that night, sprawling across the bed like some overgrown cat. His hair is dark against the pillows, his full mouth smiles even in deepest sleep and he is so beautiful that he can feel the air being stolen from his lungs even as he stares.

Richard Grayson, he concludes as he drops to the mattress and continues to stare, is some siren. A brazenly shameless creature, throw into his path to distract him and lure him from the way that has worked perfectly adequately for so many years now. He is a test, a taunt, a terrifying thing that should be struck back against at all costs. He is- he _is_ -

The man mumbles in his sleep, rubs at his nose and turns over in the bed – taking half of the blankets with him with a sleepy charm so absolute that he finds himself leaning forwards a little before he can halt himself.

...This is insane.

Completely and utterly so, dangerously so. He is not some flighty youth, free to feel such things, he is a spy and an outsider and a loner and has been one since the day of his birth. He has lasted almost thirty years without needing anybody else, he should be able to last thirty more. He is _better_ on his own, stronger. He should take this opportunity, while Grayson is unable to interfere, to rebuild his walls and return to the old life of isolation. It is safer this way, it is _better_.

...But still, he does not.

He just sits, foolishly, and stares at Richard Grayson until he himself falls asleep.

 

\--

 

Time goes on, more quickly than he would like. Every morning Matron calls, and he has to report nothing while Grayson awakes himself in the bathroom. Every day they lose themselves in the sitting room, and he refamiliarizes himself with Richard’s lips. Every night they sneak around the resort, and Grayson- Richard- Dick- by Allah, he can think of _nothing_ else.

Dick Grayson has black hair and blue eyes. He smiles freely, but just as often lets a hidden sadness lurk in his expression. He enjoys cereal with a joy that is truly terrifying, but seems to enjoy disgustingly fatty burgers just as much. He is an incredibly fit man, and when he chooses to fly he does so more beautifully than any bird. He is incredibly distracting, and... And he does not know if he has ever cared for another person this deeply before.

It is maddening, it is terrifying, he wishes for it to stop immediately and never ever happen again.

...He wishes for it to never end.

 

\--

 

"You're growling," Dick- Grayson, curse it, _Grayson_! Says about a week after they arrive, while they're walking to breakfast and he's trying to distract himself from the curve of Grayson's eyelashes by any means necessary, "should I be worried, or is that just the way that you express your deep admiration for the morning now?"

He glances around. Once, twice, ever so slowly. He doesn't know what he was expecting, perhaps the universe to aid him in his mission of distraction, but he doesn't receive it. Instead there's only the peace of the resort, the blue of the sky reminding him of Grayson's eyes.

"We haven't made any progress," he gives grumpily, when all else fails and he's left only with the slightly pointed clearing of Grayson's throat at his side, "we've been here for a week, and we're still no closer to the object than when we started. It is... Quite incredibly frustrating."

"And I thought I was impatient," Grayson drawls, and gives him a sweet little smirk when he turns his head - against the buzzing anxiety's better judgement, he will admit - to glare, "didn't Helena say that we couldn't expect immediate results?"

"Don't-" he snaps, and realizes that using the term 'matron' would be even more incriminating in this setting. Changes his snap at the last moment, to ward off the terribly attractive arch of Grayson's eyebrow, "you may be alright with a history of failure, but I am not. I have a high rate of success, and I wish to _maintain_ that. Being unable to locate a vital package is _not_ my idea of-"

"Tiger," Grayson interrupts him, surprisingly calmly.

"-A _fun_ -"

" _Tiger_."

...He calms, despite himself, and glances slowly over to where Grayson is standing with his arms crossed. The eternal smile is still in place, of course, but there's an odd expression in his eyes. Almost like disappointment, so sharp and sudden that he's pretty sure a fist to the gut would hurt an awful lot less.

"I-" he says slowly, and then closes his eyes and forces himself onwards. Grayson deserves that much, at least. Grayson deserves the whole universe on a silver platter, "I am sorry, I am just frustrated. I should not have taken it out on you, for you can do nothing to change the situation."

"Wow, that almost sounded sincere," Grayson says softly, and when he looks his eyes have softened just slightly. Not much, just enough to make him look ravishingly wonderful again, "I know it's annoying, but we have to hold on. Something is just around the corner, I _know_ it."

"Hm," he says, and bites down on a reluctant smile so hard that the inside of his cheek may well start bleeding, "do Batman and company have powers of precognition, now?"

"It's one of our hidden talents," Grayson says cheerfully, and actually reaches out to take his hand - softly, warmly, so close that his traitorous heart skips a beat before he can do the sensible thing and steel it, "along with remarkably good singing voices and the ability to annoy the most level headed of people. Come on, we might as well _enjoy_ the free cereal while we're waiting for something to come along."

He smirks, he'd really love to say reluctantly, and allows Grayson to drag him along. Back into his helpless orbit, yet again.

 

\--

 

"I don't trust them," Billy's voice says, high and slightly whiny.

 

He's coming back from the bathroom, having left to allow Dick- Grayson to commune at great length with his cereal, and pauses at the sound. Considers for only a second, before ducking behind one of the numerous pot plants that litter this place and settling in to listen.

"Don't be dumb," Stacy's voice replies lowly, frustrated in a way that indicates this has been a rather too regular topic of conversation, "they're just _visitors_ , like anybody else here. Next you'll be saying that their car is a secret camera, that fires police out of the lens when it takes pictures."

"I can't help feeling that they're more than that," Billy huffs stiffly, obviously unappreciative of the idea - which is a pity, flights of fancy such as that should be _encouraged_ instead of ruthlessly quashed, "the way they're always around, the way that older one - Alexander, isn't it? - is always watching... What if they know something?"

"Billy..."

"What if they _know_?"

"Then-" Stacy's voice wavers, and then firms. A steely note of determination punching through, in a way that he can entirely appreciate, "then steps will be taken. But, seriously, you have to stop being so hysterical. _Nobody_ actually knows."

"But-!"

"I mean, who would actually believe that we have a piece of metahuman technology hidden away in this sort of place? We barely earn minimum wage as it is!"

He's heard enough. He silently removes himself from behind the pot plant, and slinks back to where Grayson is still munching ever so contentedly over his bowl of cereal.

 

\--

 

"I've found the ringleaders," he says lowly as he helps Dick- Grayson from his chair, having waited until this brief period of closeness to impart the information. This skin on the back of the man's neck is soft, his dark hair brushes against it so beautifully as he turns his head just the slightest bit.

"In the toilet?" Grayson asks, sounding faintly amused. It suits him well. Most things - from dozing peacefully to devouring cereal like a madman - suit him well, "wow, this job gets weirder by the minute."

"And your old job was so normal?" He asks lowly, and can't hold back a smile at Grayson's surprised laugh - can only take the man's arm in a firm grip, to attempt to distract from the entirely too obvious slip, "on my way back from the toilet. Billy and Stacy, as I expected."

"As you-?" Grayson is not fooled for an instant, judging by the amusement in his eyes, but kindly does not say anything. Only allows his arm to be taken, and allows himself to be moved along, "god, why do I always go for the ones with trust issues?"

He frowns a little, at that, keeps walking with his head tilted just the slightest bit.

"...Nevermind," but Grayson, for once, does not seem so obliging. Only rolls his eyes, just the slightest bit, and carries on, "we're not assassinating them."

"I never said that we should assassinate them," he says, perhaps a touch defensively, and manages to maintain his cover right up until the point where Grayson gives him the most obvious _look_ that he has ever seen, "although it would be better, if they were out of the picture..."

" _No_."

"You are being childish," he huffs, automatically.

"And _you_ are being murderous," Grayson counters, but it doesn't have any heat behind it. When the man turns his head up to smile at him, it is almost as if all his thoughts have been confirmed. They _both_ enjoy this, the relentless push and pull between them, "look, I don't deny that we should keep an eye on them. But Stacy, at least, is a good kid and doesn't _deserve_ anything like that."

"Hm," he says, and attempts a scowl. It probably comes off significantly less well than he intends, but he can't bring himself to care all that much, "Agent 37, you do not believe that _anybody_ deserves 'anything like that'."

"True."

"We have very different opinions on this matter."

"Also true."

"...We do not kill them," he decides, and also decides to ignore the warmth that surges in his chest at Grayson's ever so smug smile - the one that actively tries to struggle against the fact that the world is terrible, and fetid, and entirely lacking in anything that could be called good, "it would probably be unwise, especially when they could lead us right to our goal."

"We're getting close."

"We're getting _close_ ," he confirms. And, for once, returns Grayson's fierce smile without worrying over a single one of the consequences.

 

\--

 

The sitting room has become something close to ‘their place’ now. It seems silly, to refer to it in such a romantic way, but he cannot help it. They go there at least once a day, to see and be seen. He watches the ever present Billy out of the corner of his eye, Grayson assures him sincerely that he is watching the rest of the room and provides reasonable answers when tested. They kiss until their mouths go numb, until the only thing he can hear is the rasp of Grayson’s desperate breath in his ears.

It is... Pleasant enough.

(It is one of the best things he has ever experienced, a burning press of heat that he does not know how he’ll live without when this mission is over. But that is a secret he holds so close to himself that even he barely knows it, a hidden thing so deep that it could never possibly hurt him.)

Today is as usual, at first, in this routine that they have silently built up between them. Dick – Grayson, although it is hard to remember such a name with this heat between them – is lying peacefully on his chest, Billy is sitting suspiciously across the room, the other couples are engaged in casual conversation or gentle making out. Dick presses their lips together, and sighs contentedly above him. They move together gently, like they were both born to drift through this timeless space together.

But today is not as usual. Today they have grown closer to their goal, today progress has been made sudden and sharp. And suddenly he finds himself wanting more, pushing for more before the angry little voice in his head can shout no.

Dick tastes of milk, and sugar, and himself underneath sweeter than the both of those. When he presses up harder into the kiss, sharp and testing, the man gasps for a second before answering him. Pressing back into his kiss just as hard, and opening his mouth in an invitation so shameless that only he could pull it off. Dick Grayson, tempter. Dick Grayson, so entirely himself that you can’t help but want all of him at once.

He takes the invitation, sweeps his tongue into Dick’s mouth and tastes the vibrations of his sweet moans. And suddenly he can’t help himself, can’t remember what sense is. There’s just the press of Dick’s mouth, the slide of his tongue, the way his hands somehow manage to be absolutely everywhere at once. There’s just _Dick_. Dick, Dick, _Dick_ -

And he flips the man, as light as a bird on the wing, easily – all the better to thrust down between the hollow of his thighs...

And a loud and insistent cough sounds right by his ear, a pointed reminder of the world outside.

He’s half tempted to viciously swipe the cough aside, to fuck into Dick until the man shudders apart completely underneath him, but the angry voice in his head is already taking advantage of the interruption to scream at him. He wars with himself for a second, and then sighs – lifts his head to find the disapproving face of Billy hovering over them.

“Yes?” He asks, and barely hides a wince at how rough his voice has become.

“This is a permissive place,” Billy says, his rather whiny voice vibrating with rage. He’s clearly trying to be intimidating, even Di- Grayson has succeeded at such an attempt far better, “but you are disturbing the other customers. I must ask you to cease and desist, or else leave immediately.”

The other customers look either amused or uncaring, depending on disposition. There are no rules against getting carried away, he checked idly in the handbook. Billy is roughly a head shorter than him, and far less impressive. He opens his mouth, perhaps a touch angrily, to point all that out and more-

And Grayson pinches his arm, struggles up beneath him and offers his very brightest smile, “sorry about that! First time he’s had me to himself, and he’s just so _eager_ about everything. Won’t happen again, I can assure you. Right, my darling?”

Grayson’s skin is rubbed red from his beard, his lips are swollen and his eyes are ever so bright. He swallows, roughly, and slowly inclines his head, “indeed.”

“Well,” Billy says, huffily, and wrinkles up his face. He’s acting like a tantruming child, kicking his heels and expecting the universe to fall to heel. He’d find it almost hilarious, at any other time, but... But, “Well, make sure that it doesn’t! Or else, I can promise you, there will be severe and lasting consequences!”

The boy storms off, glaring back every few seconds as if expecting them to fall back into each other at any second. And he drags himself up from Grayson’s heat – and waits for the disgust to come, and waits, and waits...

 

\--

 

"There's nothing here," he says several hours later, and can't quite hold back the frustration in his tone.

"Nothing here either," Dick- Grayson, _Grayson_ \- he should've learned to avoid such slips after today - chirps cheerfully, popping his head down from the cottage beams like such a position is perfectly natural for him, "still, at least that confirms something."

"Oh?"

"It's not in Billy's cottage," _Grayson_ says deliberately, with a cheerful smile upon his face like the thought of such failure absolutely _thrills_ him, "we're narrowing the options down. I'm certain that when we check Stacy's cottage tomorrow-"

"You're certain," he interrupts wryly, and can't quite help himself. It seems to be a habit around Grayson, really, no matter how hard he tries to hold himself back he can never quite resist, "for a former superhero you are _remarkably_ optimistic about things."

"...Have you ever _met_ any superheroes besides me?" Grayson says slowly, and carefully drops down to land delicately upon his feet, "I mean, really, if you think I'm positive then just _wait_ until you meet Superman-"

“I mean,” he interrupts deliberately. And, for the first time, can’t really hold back his smile – can feel it spilling over his lips, as helpless and bright as the sun itself, “for a former superhero so associated with Batman. I expected you to be dark, grim, pathetically obsessed with your own legend.”

"Yeah," Grayson considers him for a moment, eyes thoughtful, shakes his head with a wry smile, "yeah, I'm literally _none_ of those things."

"Richard," he says, so close to worshipfully that the angry voice constantly lurking in his head is briefly shocked into silence, "you are one of the brightest, sunniest, humblest men that I have ever met."

"I..." Grayson starts. And blinks at the use of his name, the compliment, the worship that slipped through no matter how hard his constant anger tried to hold it back, "um, okay. I'm not sure I can equal that, but if it helps you're different to what I expected too."

"Oh?" He asks, nerves making themselves known for the first time in a... While.

"Before we came here, I mean," Grayson clarifies, and returns to his bright smile - so very bright, like he wasn't already distracted enough, "you know, I thought you were just a very angry wall. But actually you're kind of cool."

He arches an eyebrow, tries his very hardest to remember how to look unimpressed.

"And smart, and funny, and not too terrible to talk to," Grayson continues firmly, and then hesitates for just a second - looks up at him from under his eyelashes, the kind of face that he never thought to experience without other people looking ever so curiously on, "and a surprisingly good kisser, actually."

And suddenly he's glad, that the cottage is too dark for anybody to see the blush that suddenly rises upon his face.

 

\--

 

“You’re still annoyed,” Dick sighs cheerfully, when they’re back in the safety of their own cottage – the man sits on the bed, swinging his legs brightly, and he’s blindsided by how much he wants to lean in and halt the motion with the weight of his body, “aren’t you?”

He grunts, lowly, leans back against one of the walls and tries to halt the urge.

"Or have I been mistaken about everything, and that's just how you express joy?" Dick asks wryly, finally stops swinging his legs and leans forward to peruse his face, "one growl is the equivalent of a giggle, two growls moves up to chuckling status, and after _that_ -"

"...Yes," he gives, and can't quite hold back a smirk at the brief flash of surprise on Dick's pretty face.

"Well- Well," Dick stumbles for a moment, soon recovers with his usual bright smile. Honestly, by this point he's considering investing in a sturdy set of sunglasses, "I suppose that is allowed. It is frustrating, after all, to get so close and be-"

"Stop quoting lyrics from Bond theme songs at me," he interrupts, continues to smirk as Dick halts dead and blinks up at him with eyes as wide as the moon, "I know that I'm allowed to be annoyed, I fully intend to be annoyed, and hopefully by tomorrow I shall have recovered from being annoyed and can finally fix the problem."

"...You've heard Bond theme songs," is Dick's only response, slow and slightly shaky, "whoa, okay."

He continues smirking, back still against the wall.

 

"Reminds me of the time Bru- Batman revealed that he's actually watched all the Terminator films," Dick continues, a little steadier. As he watches, still amused, the man considers for a second and then slowly rises to his feet, "you know, I honestly didn't think that you were that into the whole spy thing."

"Why shouldn't I be?" He asks casually. And watches as Dick comes closer, closer with so many fresh questions crowding his eyes, "am I not allowed to have interests?"

"Interests, sure," Dick smiles at him. A touch teasingly, a touch tinted with concern, "but obsessive interests that take over your entire life?"

"I-" he starts confidently, pauses, ducks his head as Dick gets closer still. Perhaps too close, he can see the concern in his eyes and feel the heat from his body, "it has been the only thing that I've had for most of my life. It only seemed natural."

"It seems..." Dick pauses for a second, bites his lip. If he leaned forwards just a little, breathed out as the man breathed in- "you could always find other interests."

"Oh," one moment, another moment. His eyes remain fixed on Dick's lips, "such as?"

Another moment, a pause stretches out between them...

And the sun, earlier by the day, peeps over the horizon. Shines through the tiny windows of the cottage, forcing its way between them and dragging them brutally back into the land of sense no matter how much they struggle.

"I don't know," _Grayson_ says, his eyes flashing with something like disappointment even as he smiles, and takes a step back - turning away before he can even think to reach out, "have you ever considered cultivating an interest in knitting?"

 

\--

 

“Any news?” Matron’s voice asks through his implant. Crisp and slightly bored, as if she exists in a world that isn’t changing so rapidly that she can barely cling onto it with her fingernails.

Last night, early this morning to be technically accurate, he had to excuse himself to the shower briefly to take care of the ache between his legs. This morning, properly this morning in the sleepy gap between awareness and dreaming, he awoke to find himself coiled possessively around Dick’s back. Now…

There’s a longing in his stomach, to run to Dick in the bathroom and press him up against the shower cubicle and take and take and _take_. He ignores it, barely. Raggedly clears his throat and gets on with business, “we have identified the two ringleaders, and currently have high hopes that they will expose the technology shortly.”

“ _Excellent_ ,” he can hear the smile in Matron’s voice, the calm steadiness that he must regain or else lose himself entirely, “names? Any other pertinent details?”

“One is named William “Billy” Williams,” he pauses in pity for a moment over the name, no wonder the boy seems so neurotic, and then moves quickly on, “the other is named Anastacia “Stacy”… Hm.”

“Stacy Blake,” Dick yells from the bathroom, having obviously overheard the conversation. He can’t help wondering, at the sound, what the man looks like in there. If his eyes are still sleepy, if his skin is flushed, if he’s naked and standing in front of the mirror just waiting for…

“We shall start searches on both of them immediately,” Matron’s voice draws him back to reality, crisp and efficient in a way that he never knew how much he appreciated until now, “I trust that you have already taken all further steps? Secured the area? Searched their cabins? Compiled a list of possible locations for the technology?”

“Yes,” he says, and hopes that he sounds somewhere close to level. It would simply be… Embarrassing, otherwise, “we have secured the area as far as possible. We have also searched Billy’s cabin, and have plans to search Stacy’s as soon as possible.”

“And plans beyond that?”

“Of _course_ , Matron.”

“Good good,” a long pause, and then a soft chuckle across the line. He can’t help but close his eyes in the face of it, miserably recognizing that his ever so brief reprieve is over, “and what about the _gossip_ , Agent One, is _that_ area progressing nicely?”

“I-“ he starts, as steadily as he can. And then is forced to a breathless halt, as Dick emerges from the bathroom – hair ruffled up, skin flushed, nudity barely covered by a pair of pajama pants that hang low enough to leave little to the imagination. He yawns, and stretches, and… There is no question, to his dazed mind, Dick Grayson is the most beautiful creature that he has ever seen.

“…Agent One?”

“I am not sure,” he manages shakily – staring into Dick’s ever so blue, ever so curious eyes, “ask me again, when we return, and I may finally have an answer for you.”

 

\--

 

“I still don’t understand how you can actually drink it like that,” Dick mutters over breakfast, giving him a low look over his cereal bowl that could almost be termed as _fond_.

Distracted by that, even more than he is usually distracted by Dick Grayson and his infernal looks and kindness and _everything_ , it takes him a second to realize that the man is talking about his coffee. By his hand, and black as the night as per usual, “I prefer it this way.”

“So did Br- well, _he_ ,” Grayson only grins at him brightly, returns to his sugar drenched cereal like it’s the most delicious thing existing upon the planet, “I never got it. I mean, the morning is terrible enough as it is. Why would you make it worse by putting what basically amounts to a sharp dose of poison in your body?”

“Hm,” he says, and narrowly fights back a grin. A small smile still curves his lips, a helpless testament to his failure, “I am guessing that you are not a fan?”

“Tried it, hated it, never laid a finger on it since,” Dick gives a theatrical shudder, smirks at him afterwards like inviting him to share in some grand cosmic joke, “I don’t understand why you wouldn’t go for something sweet in the morning. Like juice, or pancakes covered in syrup, or…”

“Cereal?” He interrupts wryly, nods his head towards the rather overflowing bowl between them, “at a guess.”

“…I was going to suggest ice cream,” Dick gives a slightly sheepish grin, a charmed laugh. Amazing, how even when he’s embarrassed he manages to look like one of the more gorgeous sights in the universe, “actually.”

“Ice cream would probably be healthier,” he says pointedly, quite possibly only to watch Dick go that little redder, “isn’t that supposed to be for children?”

“ _Possibly_.”

“You are ridiculous,” he says fondly, because there is no other way to react to Dick Grayson. You try to hate him, you try to resist his charm, but no matter how much you struggle you end up getting dragged in anyway. He’d be offended, if he wasn’t so deeply caught, “and, for the record, I do not understand how you can put that in _your_ body. To want something so sweet, so early…”

“Just because you only want something bitter,” Dick scoffs, but there’s no venom behind his words. Only a soft kind of heat, a longing that it’s very hard to turn away from.

“I want something _strong_ ,” he corrects, perhaps a touch too breathlessly, and barely resists the urge to lean in. To just sweep Dick into his arms and- and anything, he is somewhat startled to realize that he would do anything, “something strong, and fit for purpose, and-“

“So,” Dick interrupts challengingly, mouth obviously running ahead of his thoughts, “you like your coffee like you like your men, then?”

…They stare at each other for a long second. Silence stretching, absolute and slightly absurd, between them.

“Tiger-“

“I am tired of waiting,” he interrupts, somewhat suddenly, and tries his very hardest to ignore the helpless flush on Dick Grayson’s face. It is beautiful, yes, but no matter how far he has tumbled already he cannot allow himself to fall all the way. He _cannot_ , “today… Today I think we should finally take action. Stacy should be out in the resort, we shall go to her cabin right after we are done here.”

“ _Tiger_ -“

“Richard,” he says levelly, cursing himself for his foolishness. And the conversation is over, as quickly and sharply (and painfully, at the sudden look in Dick’s eyes) as that.

 

\--

 

“You know,” Dick says, his voice hushed and just slightly nervous, “I’m still pretty sure that this is the definition of a bad idea.”

“There’s nothing here,” he huffs angrily. Hands firmly on his hips, eyes staring at the inevitable mess he’s made on the floor around him, “I have searched everywhere that I can think of. And there’s nothing _here_.”

“We’ve studied her schedule,” Dick continues, also studying the mess around them but with more concern than helpless frustration that boils inside like hot water, “she’s off in the afternoon, not the night, she could come back early and catch us red handed. This was a bad idea, you must _know_ that.”

“ _Nothing_.”

“What are you running from so fast that you’ve lost all sense, Tiger?”

...He freezes for a second. Finds that he can’t quite bring himself to look over to Dick Grayson. Dick Grayson with his wide blue eyes, Dick Grayson with his hopeful expression, Dick Grayson who is everything that he has ever secretly wanted wrapped up in a blue bow.

“It’s me, isn’t it?” Dick takes his silence as answer, because he’s smart under all that circus boy bluster, smiles a crooked smile, “you know, I never thought you were the type to have a gay panic but...”

“This isn’t a gay panic,” he interrupts harshly, trembling – against his will – like a leaf in the breeze.

“Then what _is_ it then?” Dick hisses, and is suddenly _right_ there. Right in his face, like he sees nothing wrong with being so very close, “you seem to like me, I’ve _seen_ you watching me, and yet every time I get too close you shove me violently away. It’s like you want me, but don’t want to want me so badly that you’re willing to set fire to yourself before giving it a try.”

He remains silent for a long moment, trembling.

“Tiger...”

“I know very well where my preferences lie,” he says, and his voice shakes but he can’t exactly help that right now, “I have known since I was in a teenager, and in a place where admitting to such a thing would’ve got me far more than a disapproving slap on the wrist. This is not about that.”

“Then...” Dick stares at him with wide eyes, a longing in them so deep that he almost staggers back underneath the weight of it, “then what is this about?”

“ _Everything_ ,” he hisses, and finds even himself surprised at the venom in his tone, “we are spies, we are partners, we are on a mission. You are a former superhero raised by a man who regularly dresses up in a bat costume, I am the former Tiger King of Kandahar who was abandoned by even his mother. The thought that either of us could maintain anything is insane at best.”

Dick’s jaw has dropped open, Dick’s eyes have gone wide “...You know that Bruce is Batman.”

“I am not an idiot,” he says stiffly, still so angry that it _burns_ within him, “it was easy enough to figure out, after a while with you.”

“And you haven’t told anyone?”

“Agent 37...”

“No,” Dick says firmly. And, when he tries to open his mouth again, springs forwards – grabs his hands, and holds them in a vice like grip, “ _no_ , the fact that you know my deepest secret and haven’t revealed it to anybody _shows_ that it isn’t just insanity. There could be something between us, Tiger, something great if just let go of your fear and _fought_ for it.”

“Dick Grayson,” he snaps. Angry, reeling, so unwillingly hopeful that it feels like he’s been set on fire, “you are an _idiot_.”

“Tiger, you are a-“

And the door clicks, right as Dick stubbornly opens his mouth, and before they know it they are both immediately shooting towards the window – nothing forgotten, in the sudden burst of terror.

 

\--

 

“What the-?” Stacy’s voice comes from inside the room, followed by a low rustle and a few sharp cracks, “fucking hell.”

They’re perched just to the side of the window. He holds on to the wall with all his strength, while Dick perches over him as delicate as a bird on the wing. At the sound of Stacy’s dismay, and presumably the sound of her accidentally shattering one of the picture frames on the floor, Grayson turns his head to give him an accusing look. He would mind it more, quite honestly, but... Those blue eyes are incredibly close.

“Fucking _hell_.”

All of him is incredibly close, in actuality. He can feel the press of the man’s muscles, touch the softness of his skin, hear the soft gasp of his breath. He can see every detail of Dick Grayson’s face from where they perch. And that... That would be hard for even one of the Christian saints to resist. And he is nowhere close to one of those.

“I didn’t...” Another snap, another muffled curse. Stacy sounds that terrible mixture of confused and angry that he’s been dealing with for days now, “who could’ve... Billy, maybe? I gave him the key-“

Confused at Dick’s eyes, angry at his reaction to them. Confused at Dick’s smile, angry at the helpless warmth in his belly at it. Confused at the way his heart grows two sizes at Dick’s slightest gesture, angry at how much that hurts. Confused, angry. Confused, _angry_. He has never felt so unsteady before and it is _maddening_.”

“No, he...” A long pause from inside the room. And then Stacy shifts, lets out a barely audible little huff that he can barely pay any attention, “huh.”

Because suddenly he is tired. Tired of listening, tired of the confusion, tired of the endlessly boiling rage standing in the way of everything he wants to accomplish. Suddenly he is _tired_ , of letting the sneering little voice in his head control him. Suddenly he is tired...

And Dick Grayson is right there, starting to edge slowly down the wall with that disapproving look still in his eye.

 

\--

 

“Well,” Dick says angrily, when they get back to their cottage (narrowly, running carefully in the shadows of buildings to hide their tracks from any onlookers), “that was a waste of time.”

He remains silent, staring. The voice in his head is trying to cry out against him, but he ignores it utterly. Too long has he been ruled by fear, too long has he allowed this endlessly aching pain to hold him back.

“I hate to say I told you so,” Dick continues, faltering only a little under the intensity of his gaze, “but, well…”

 _Too long_.

Before Dick can even finish his sentence, before he can get one more disappointed word out, he is striding across the room. Catching the man up, tight in his arms, and carrying him back to the wall. They have kissed many times now, so many times where he tried to pretend that he felt nothing, but this feels somehow different. The press of Dick’s mouth is hot against his, sweet, somewhat confused. But, as he keeps kissing, it _melts_ \- becomes something feral and desperate, something that sends a helpless tremble through all of his limbs.

“Tiger,” Dick gasps, breathless as they briefly break for air.

It is good to be so helpless, sometimes.

“ _Tiger_.”

He grunts, casually, reclaims Dick’s ever so hot mouth and tugs at the hem of his T-shirt. The man, obviously used to situations like this and isn’t _that_ a thought, wavers for only a second before reaching down to help him. Shucking his shirt neatly over his head – with only a brief break in the kissing – and then scrambling his clever fingers back down to make them both shirtless.

It has been… Longer than he would like to admit, since he has been shirtless with another human being. The voice in his head screams for him to hesitate, to draw into himself and cover everything up, but- but it feels sweet, to ignore it. They have about the same amount of scars, he notices as their chests slide together. His are more puckered - the result of bullets - and Dick’s are more jagged - the result of what he assumes were knives - but they match. It is a pretty detail.

Dick groans against his mouth, actually _groans_ like even the act of getting naked is a turn on for him, and draws him into another deep and sloppy kiss. He doesn’t bother to resist it, instead only reaches down to hitch one of those long legs over his hip and _grind_ down into the space created.

And Dick likes that. Dick likes that so much that he actually _yelps_ into the kiss, turns a blotchy shade of red that is absolutely irresistible.

They make out like that, terribly sloppy and wonderfully grinding, for a long few minutes before Dick pulls back. Gives him a flushed smile, and nods ever so playfully over his shoulder to where the neatly made bed waits, “should we…?”

“Not enough time,” he grunts, and reaches out – pops the button on Dick’s jeans, and has them and his boxers sliding off his hips so quickly that it seemingly takes a blink for the man to actually notice his sudden state of nudity, “want you, need you, _now_.”

“Holy fuck,” Dick breathes. And, through some contortionist moves, manages to get both jeans and boxers down his legs and off over his feet in an almost smooth motion. Naked he is somehow even more beautiful, all carved abs and soft skin that _deserves_ to be worshipped until his dying day, “holy fuck, _Tiger_ …”

He rips his own trousers off, with far less smoothness because he is nowhere near the miracle that is Dick Grayson, and leaves his underwear in a wrecked heap upon the floor. In a moment he is back in Dick’s space, pressing him up against the wall and hitching an absurdly flexible leg up over his hip again. But Dick goes one better, wriggles for a second and then lifts that leg _all_ the way up. Hooks it over his shoulder, balancing neatly with only the slightest bite of his lip to suggest any effort.

“Grayson,” he says worshipfully, and allows himself one long _grind_ into the sinful space created – one desperate push, that makes him forget all the horrors of the world and focus on only _this_. The heat between them, the desire, the bubbling _hope_ in Dick’s eyes as they grind together once and then twice and _then_ \- “Dick. Dick, Dick, _Dick_ …”

“Tiger,” Dick mouths around a groan, and then gasps laughter as they start to move together in earnest. It is slightly uncomfortable, and impossible, and so revealing for the both of them that he knows he should be absolutely _terrified_ in every possible way-

But.

 _But_.

It is the most perfect thing that has ever happened to him, as the sun glows around them and Dick laughs so very joyfully into his ear.

 

\--

 

“Tiger.”

Reality reasserts itself, of course. It always has to.

“Tiger, _please_.”

There can be moments of light, moments of flashing joy that make the entire world seem so wonderfully on fire, but the darkness always returns. The little voice in the head, the anger, the bitter certainty that he is not allowed anything good.

“You have to talk eventually…”

Anything normal, anything pure, anything happy. Life is _pain_ , plain and simple. And forgetting that, forgetting the base fact of reality, only leads to more of it. He was a fool to think otherwise.

“Do I?” He snaps hotly. Driven by that fact. Driven by the wrenching, anxious pain within him. As Grayson, _Agent 37_ stares at him with wide and uncertain eyes, he takes a ragged breath – finally pushes himself away from where he collapsed against the wall and straightens, “is it necessary to the mission?”

“Who cares about the mission?” Agent 37 answers hotly, gives him a look that tries to be angry but that simply ends up hopelessly beseeching, “it’s necessary to _us_ , Tiger…”

That look still strikes at him, strikes down to his very _core_ , but he cannot allow that. He lowers his head, turns away from it as brutally as he can manage, “there _is_ no us. Do not allow your silly romantic notions to convince you otherwise.”

“My silly romantic…” Agent 37 barks out a laugh. Still somehow, for the man may well be a saint, only slightly bitter around the edges, “it’s a bit late for no homo, isn’t it?”

“This isn’t about-“ he snaps, and almost glances up before he catches himself. Reminds himself of how fatal that would be, how unwise allowing himself to look into Agent 37’s sky blue eyes has always and will always be, “you would say that the mission is unimportant. It shows your customary lack of care for everything that matters.”

“Tiger,” Agent 37 huffs. And it hurts afresh, to hear the touch of confused desperation in his voice. A dangerous hurt, one that cannot be allowed to fester, “please, don’t let your mind ruin a good thing. Just _talk_ to me-“

“The lack of care,” he says viciously. Knowing that he has to cut it out. Knowing, that to continue to survive in this terrible world, he has to cut and cut and cut until there is _nothing_ soft left, “that got my original partner killed thanks to your fooling.”

“Tiger…”

“The lack of care, that got you into this life in the first place.”

“ _Tiger_ …”

“The lack of care,” he bellows, and is surprised – even through the painful venom pooling in his chest – to find his voice so very loud, “that has led to your family and friends thinking that you are dead!”

There’s a long, earth-shakingly meaningful pause.

“I-“ Agent 37 says, and for the first time his voice shakes. He’s so used to the man sounding cheery, sounding blithely comfortable no matter how dark the situation, that it strikes him right down to the core, “I see that there’s no reasoning with you tonight. I’ll take the sofa tonight, since you can’t bear to be near me. See you later, Tiger.”

By the time he lifts his head, Agent 37 has already turned on his heel and marched out of the room. It’s for the best, really. Probably. He swears…

 

\--

 

When he wakes up the next morning, to the Hypnos implant sounding its tune cheerfully through his skull, the bed beside him is empty. No warmth, no lingering scent, no Dick Grayson slumbering peacefully like he’d never want to be anywhere else. Just cold sheets, smooth bedding, emptiness so absolute that it catches in his throat and strangles him.

“Agent one?”

It is best to ignore it.

“Matron.”

It is best to _try_ to ignore it, or the pain will surely devour him whole and leave a wreck of a man in his place.

“You sound even cheerier than normal,” Matron purrs, and he swears that he almost detects a note of concern in her tone. Sweet, Spyral has never pretended to show any before, “I assume that the mission is still going well?”

“Not as such,” he says shortly. And thinks, endlessly, on the look in Grayson’s eyes as he bellowed – the betrayal, the pain, the disappointment cutting into him worse than any knife wound he has ever experienced, “we- I checked yesterday, the technology that we seek is not in either of our suspects rooms.”

“That is… Puzzling,” Matron admits, and her tone still registers concern. He has to confess, it almost makes him angry. How dare they pretend, after this long? How _dare_ they after all he has done for them? “We did background checks on both of them, by the way.”

“Oh?”

“Stacy, as Grayson called her, is pretty much normal. Early twenties, has worked at the resort for about a year now, no education as a result of coming from a very poor family. A loving one, by all accounts, but her father has several medical conditions and her mother has only been able to find menial work since before Stacy’s birth,” a click, Matron makes a thoughtful humming sound in the back of her throat, “Billy is much the same – early twenties, employed for a year, poor family – but… He unfortunately has violence in his background. His father has been in prison multiple times for aggravated assault. Two of his older brothers are also currently in prison, one for the same charges as his father and the other for robbing multiple convenience stores at gunpoint.”

Grayson would comment on how this made Billy’s jumpiness make sense, Grayson would express sympathy, Grayson would suggest making a genuine connection. Grayson… He jumps up from the bed, paces to the bedroom door restlessly, “they are still keeping the technology from us.”

“And any sob stories are irrelevant to the mission, I know,” Matron sighs, almost sounding disappointed in him. She has no right, _it_ has no right to hurt, “they should be considered, though, they might well provide you with a way in… You know, Agent One, I thought I _was_ finally going to get some gossip from you.”

“That was foolish of you,” he says, hand hovering over the door knob.

“Perhaps,” Matron remains silent for a long moment. His hand comes down, and then lifts again, “I thought that your partner was finally softening you. I thought that I’d finally be able to say, ‘look girls, there’s Agent One. He used to be an absolute bastard, but then he met Agent Thirty Seven and now you only want to punch him occasionally.’”

“I-“ he says, and his hand comes back down – fists around the door knob, “think you would lose, if you tried to punch me.”

“I think you’d be wrong,” Matron says, very deliberately, “Agent One, Tiger…”

“To be soft is a weakness,” he says quietly, hesitates for only a second longer before turning the knob viciously in his hand, “to allow yourself to be softened is both foolish and deadly. That is one of the first lessons we were taught, have you forgotten it so completely?”

And Dick Grayson-

“Have you forgotten the second lesson we learned?” Matron asks pertly in his ear, tone so frustrated that he would actually fear her if she were anywhere close, “that the first lesson is bullshit, that to be soft and open and loved is one of the strongest things a person can possibly do in their life?”

…Is gone.

“Agent One?”

The cottage is empty besides him. The sofa looks slept on, but there is no Dick Grayson. No Dick Grayson sitting sulkily, no Dick Grayson bustling around in the tiny kitchenette, no Dick Grayson turning towards him with determination burning hotly in his eyes. _Nothing_.

“…Tiger?”

But there is a shadow at the door.

Ignoring Matron’s voice in his ear, exasperated and truly worried underneath, he strides forwards and throws it brutally open. Is somehow surprised, after all of this, to find Stacy on the other side – eyeing him nervously, like she’s not sure quite why she came but is hopeful that this won’t all blow up in her face.

“We may have a problem,” she says, and firmly raises her chin.

 

\--

 

“First of all,” Stacy starts bravely, when he’s quickly silenced Matron and hustled her into the cottage, “I know that you’re not who you say you are.”

“Interesting hypothesis,” he says levelly, easily slipping back into the voice that he’s been using for the past week. The Alexander voice, that of a quiet businessman who has not once snapped a man’s neck, “please tell me how you reached it, before I decide to save myself the bother and simply sue the resort instead.”

“I- We’ve had our suspicions for some time,” Stacy answers, looking only a little terrified in the face of his well-crafted bluster, “um, but… This is going to sound super paranoid, but I’ve lately started keeping a camera feed in my quarters.”

...A camera feed.

“And, uh, yesterday – when I got back – I checked it and found that you, and your husband, had broken in and messed it up.”

A camera feed that he was too damned _distracted_ to see. Distracted by Grayson, distracted by his bodily urges, distracted by the fear so fierce and hot that it was determined to rob everything from him no matter what.

“…Mr Gray-Namurr?”

“That’s not my real name,” he mutters, and tries not to let himself be overcome by a wave of regret so sharp that it physically pains him, “very good. What else do you know, Miss Blake?”

“Uh, well,” Stacy says, and blinks at the compliment. Always throw your attackers off their stride, that’s basic training, “at first I thought you might be thieves, after whatever valuables I had, but… That doesn’t make any sense. I have no valuables, I wouldn’t be working here if I did, and thieves would naturally be more likely to focus on the richer targets. And then I started thinking that it was too much of a coincidence, that you just happened to break into my quarters.”

“A coincidence.”

“…If I’m wrong, this is going to sound insane,” Stacy takes in a deep breath, shakes her head, “So I really hope I’m not wrong. A year ago, I was walking to my shift with my friend – Billy – and we saw something fall from the sky. We had nothing better to do, it was better than going to work to be polite to people who saw us as lower than the dust on their shoes, and so we went to check it out. In the crater we found this glowing _thing_ , it looked a little like a heart, and when we touched it-“

He finds himself leaning forward, through his disgust at himself, and studying her with a desperate intensity, “what did it do?”

“I… Needed some fillings, didn’t have the money to get them. Billy had this really livid cut on his hand, he’d fallen over the day before and-“ Stacy bites her lip, shakes her head, “you’re not interested in the details. All you need to know is that we were hurt, and it _healed_ us.”

He sits back in his chair, rests his hands thoughtfully on his knees. The applications of the technology alone… “And you didn’t tell anyone?”

“The technology, it’s…” Stacy hesitates for another moment, sighs lowly through her nose, “when we found it, it had a crack in it about the size of my little finger. After it healed us that crack got bigger, and has kept getting bigger and bigger and- I don’t think it has much juice left in it, I think it could shatter at any moment.”

“So that’s why you kept it to yourselves,” he says softly, probingly, “you were afraid to destroy such a valuable thing.”

“That, and…” Stacy wavers for a moment, lets out a soft noise like a sob. When she turns back to him, he’s not surprised to see a faint dampness in her eyes, “we’ve both been poor for all our lives, and finally we had a thing that was worth something. We wanted to work out what we should do with it, whether there was any way to make money and get _out_ of this place.”

A long pause. For the first time, he finds a touch of sympathy stirring in his heart as he stares at her “…And why are you telling me all of this?”

Stacy stares at him defiantly in return. Eyes still damp, but chin firm.

“Why are you giving up your advantage _now_?”

“…I also have cameras set up outside where we’re keeping the technology,” Stacy explains slowly. And though her chin doesn’t tremble, her eyes suddenly flood full of guilt, “I saw your husband enter about half an hour ago, on his own. But unfortunately Billy saw it too, and Billy- Billy is willing to do a lot more than I am, to get out of here.”

The breath catches in his lungs, his vision goes briefly blurry and he finds himself up on his feet before he can even properly think about it, “where?”

“Under the dining hall, down some stairs, through this old pair of doors that barely anybody knows about,” Stacy swallows, scrambles to her feet too with an urgent look in her eyes, “we used to smoke down there. Please, we have to be quick or Billy’s going to do something that he won’t be able to live with.”

 

\--

 

He bursts out of the cottage at full speed, leaving the door slamming open behind him and Stacy staggering after him. Makes his way to the main building, the dining hall, as fast as he possibly can. It’s foolish, he knows, and the angry little voice in his head sneers at him for his utter lack of control, but…

But he keeps picturing Agent 37 in danger.

He keeps picturing Richard Grayson hurt.

He keeps picturing Dick _dead_.

And so he ignores the angry voice in his head yet again, ignores the angry surge and mutter of it. Without it, they would not be in such a position. Without it, Dick Grayson would not be risking his _life_ just because he couldn’t resist his senseless fear.

He reaches the main building, and grinds to a halt as he realizes that he has no idea where to progress from there. One anxious moment passes, two, and then Stacy comes up behind him – panting and red in the face, but still impressively on her feet, “the entrance isn’t in the hall itself, we have to go around the building and-“

“And?” He asks impatiently, sending her a glare because she _isn’t_ speaking quickly enough.

“…Through a door behind the main building, down the stairs, deep underground,” Stacy bites her lip, shakes her head. She’s still trembling from the lack of air, but stubbornly maintains her feet no matter what, “don’t worry, we’re going to get to your husband before anything happens.”

“He’s not my husband,” he corrects, eyes absently scanning the horizon. The building. The area that Dick is under now, possibly bleeding and hurt and-

“What, _seriously_?”

“Hn,” he says, and ignores the open confusion on Stacy’s face, “tell me, Miss Blake, how dangerous do you really think your friend Billy is?”

“I-“ Stacy says, still looking confused, and then lets out a gusty sigh through her nose. When she looks up at him again, firmly, there’s a deep fear in her eyes that can’t quite be ignored, “he doesn’t want to do bad things, I _swear_. But he’s desperate, and scared, and…”

He’s heard enough. He takes a deep, shaky breath and starts running again at top speed.

 

\--

 

"Billy, _stop_!"

Through the door and down the stairs, through a labyrinth of tunnels as fast as Stacy could go, around the corner and forwards... Until they reached a buzzing electrical light and an almost empty corridor. Billy and Dick, _Dick_ , standing right in the middle of it in a standoff so obvious that he would've commented on the nature of it if his throat hadn't been closing up with the terror.

For Billy, nervous and pinched and ever so desperate Billy, is holding a gun. Is pointing it shakily right at Dick's head, in a way that could kill instantly if he moved in just the wrong way.

"Billy," Stacy repeats besides him, desperately, and holds out a rough arm when he tries to surge forwards. She's probably right, he's good but he hasn't quite mastered moving faster than a speeding bullet, _but_ \- "Billy, please, stop this. There's no need to-"

"No need," Billy interrupts sharply, shakily. Jerks his head in Dick's wide-eyed direction, "no _need_?"

"We don't mean you any harm," he lies as levelly as he can, because with Dick in such danger he's _barely_ repressing the urge to march over and rip the man's head from his body, "nobody has to get hurt today. Just put the gun down, and we can talk."

And Billy trembles for a moment, and he allows himself a second of restrained hope...

"If you don't mean any harm," but it passes. Billy gulps, seems to stiffen his desperate resolve yet again, "then why is he down here? Why have you been here for over a week, _watching_ us?"

"We don't mean to hurt you," he repeats, desperately tamping down on his anger...

"We're here to help," and Dick notices, as ever. Dick takes over, with a slow glance to him that has his heart shooting right up into his throat, "we know that you have some technology, and we want to make sure that it doesn't backfire on you. We're with an agency, Spyral, and we're actually trained to help in situations such as this."

Because in that first glance, in that brief glance, there was so much hope that it almost suffocates him. When Dick glances at him again after his speech, as if to check for signs of rejection, he can only nod just slightly and hope that his heart shows in his eyes.

"Trained to-?" Billy spits, as Dick's expression softens just that slightest bit, "why would we need your _help_?"

 

"The technology could be dangerous to you..."

"The technology _healed_ us, you-!"

"Then the world could be dangerous to you," Dick says levelly, and carefully lowers his shoulders to make himself seem less of a threat. He obviously hasn't given the man enough credit, he's actually good at this, "I know it may seem impossible at the moment, it seems impossible to me sometimes, but we're the good guys. There are people who would do you harm if they knew you had this technology, people who could exploit or even _kill_ you. We can protect you."

Stacy takes a slow step towards the two. Halts, turns to him with wide eyes, "is that true?"

"If anything, it is an understatement," he says honestly, and attempts a smile. Judging by the brief grin on Dick's face, it works better than it has before, "my- husband has always been a touch too positive when confronted by such things."

"We could work with those people," Billy says shakily. Turning briefly to stare at him with desperate eyes, jerking back to Dick in the next moment, "we could choose to seek them out. They could give us _money_ -"

"Billy, you _can't_ -"

"And you couldn't," he says levelly, hopefully persuasively, "those people would pretend to be on your side, but you'd be dead the moment you revealed yourself to them. I will not lie, and say that my agency is angelic by comparison, but my partner is right. We are the 'good guys', and we can help you if you just let us."

"And..." Stacy hesitates, temptation laced through her voice, "and you won't ask anything of us in return?"

"We'll-" Dick obviously struggles with the lie for a second, pauses, shakes his head. It's one of the things he loves about the man, but _Allah_ it is annoying sometimes, "I won't lie to you, we'll have to take the technology."

...Love.

"You'll-!" Billy stutters, angry and hopeless in equal measure.

 _Love_.

"But we'll give you so much more!" and looking at Dick's face, looking at his desperate desire to _believe_ in the world, he suddenly realizes that there was no chance of it being anything but, "we'll give you security, safety. We'll give you your _lives_ back."

"We'll give you a family," he adds quietly, and stares at Dick like he's the sun coming up after an endless night.

"I..." Billy chokes. And then slowly, reluctantly, lowers his gun and takes a damp breath, "I just want to get out of here. I just- I just want an actual _home_ -"

"And we can give that to you, Billy," Dick says hopefully, beautifully as he takes a slow and tentative step forwards and raises his hands in the universal gesture for peace, "we can give you everything that you've ever wanted. Just put the gun down and..."

Don't look up slowly, don't accidentally twitch your hand, don't lose _focus_. A moment, a blink, and the old weapon in Billy's hand misfires - right into Dick's stomach, right into Dick's unprotected flesh, right into _Dick_.

 

\--

 

“I didn’t mean to!” Billy yells, almost hysterical as he drops the gun in the dust and takes a shaking step back, “oh god, I didn’t mean to!”

He pays little attention. He knows that, logically, he should be frothing with the desire for bloody and brutal revenge – but he can think little of that, with Dick sinking to the floor. Can think little of that, at the sight of red swiftly starting to cover his shirt. He leaps forward, as fast as he possibly can – catches Dick mid stumble and lowers the man as gently as he can to the floor.

“Dick?”

Dick opens his mouth, valiantly, and then halts. Gives a full body shudder, and coughs up blood red and sticky onto his lips. He’s rapidly going pale, his temperature is dropping. He doesn’t have to be a doctor to see where this is heading.

“Billy, shut _up_ ,” he hears Stacy snap, and then suddenly she is at his side – staring down at Dick cradled in his arms with wide, stricken eyes, “is he... Fucking god.”

Dick Grayson is beautiful, even now, but he would not be beautiful as a corpse. He would not be beautiful blue on a slab, and he would not be beautiful deep in the ground. He would just be... Dead. And if the realization of love hadn’t already been enough, feeling Dick die in his arms would’ve – despite all that has gone between them, despite all his fear, he would do _anything_ to spend one more day in Dick Grayson’s light.

“You can’t die,” as it is, he can only whisper. Hold Dick as gently as he can, and watch those bright blue eyes slowly lose their light, “come on, Grayson, you are better than this. Dick, you are stronger than this. Please do not die, please. You cannot die now, I- I have not learned how to apologize yet. I have not counted all the freckles on your face. I have not been able to compare your eyes to the midday sky, or the perfect sea. _Please_.”

“Alexander...” Stacy says, meaningless and shallow into his grief, and then barks out a bitter laugh, “fuck, I don’t even know if that’s actually your real name.”

‘Tiger,’ Dick mouths up at him softly. His heart in his eyes, his forgiveness so plain that he half feels like weeping.

“I’m so sorry for all of this,” but Stacy is still talking, soft and steady at his side. And something, perhaps something in Dick’s glance, tells him to resist giving up and concentrate on her instead, “I really, honestly am. But... There might still be a way to fix all of this.”

It takes him a moment, with Dick’s blood on his hands, to realize what she’s saying. But when he does, he can think of nothing else, “the technology.”

“The technology,” Stacy confirms, and the bites her lip yet again – shakes her head just slightly, as if the weight of the world is pressing her steadily down under the weight of its merciless heel, “but it’s cracked, I don’t know if it’ll be able to heal him. And even if it does... Well, it won’t withstand the process. It’ll be useless to all of us then, even him.”

But he doesn’t even have to think about it. Fuck the merciless world, fuck his fear, fuck even Spyral. They have all taken and taken and taken from him, over and over again, and he has had enough. They will not take this from him, they will _not_.

He raises his gaze to Stacy, fixes her with his most authoritative glare, “get it.”

And to her credit, to her continued existence because he would’ve not been able to restrain his temper had she refused him, she immediately obeys. Scrambles to her feet, and hurries off into the darkness of the tunnel.

It takes what seems like an eternity, with Dick weak and almost lifeless in his arms, but she soon returns with a small cracked object in her arms. Up close it does look like a heart, but a mechanical one. It looks dusty, and old, and has a huge crack right up its centre. It looks delicate enough to shatter, at a single stiff breeze...

“Just touch it to his exposed skin,” Stacy says breathlessly, handing it over to him with only the slightest shudder of reluctance, “and it should do the rest.”

But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t _matter_ , because he is stronger than that and they are stronger than that and they will survive no matter what. He takes a deep breath, and then leans forwards and presses the mechanical heart right up against Dick’s soft flesh. 

And-

Dick’s wounds close up, Dick’s skin regains its colour, Dick starts to breath easily again like the entire universe has just become absolutely right.

And the technology turns to dust, and blows away.

 

\--

 

“So,” Stacy says quietly a few hours later, as they watch Dick get quickly loaded into the Spyral ambulance, “I suppose that’s it, then.”

Dick still looks pale, and far weaker than he’s comfortable with, but he’s _alive_ and so he’s willing to overlook any number of mild imperfections. As the man is loaded into the ambulance he slowly lifts his head, gives a fragile little wave. He finds himself waving back before he can think about it, just a tiny little twitch of his wrist that leaves him feeling ridiculous... but it’s worth it, for the radiant look that spreads across Dick’s face at the sight.

“Tiger?” Stacy asks insistently at his side, then gives a low snort, “god, what a name. Preferred it when you were Alexander.”

“Careful,” he warns, but amiably. With Dick alive, it is hard to summon his old level of burning rage, “and we will be leaving now, if that is what you mean. There is more technology to find, more trouble to be faced, more missions to be completed.”

“Places to go, things to see,” Stacy nods, and her tone is wistful, “stuff to do. Must be nice, to have so many options.”

He slowly glances sideways, hesitates for only a second before sighing, “Stacy.”

“I’m sorry,” she says instantly, gives him a strangely bitter smirk that he recognizes instantly. He’s seen it on his own face in the mirror too many times to count, after all, “it’s just... I go to prison after this, don’t I? Or am forced to stay here, which is possibly worse than prison when I think about it. I had a chance to get out, we had a chance to actually change something and we messed it up. We messed it all up, and now we have nothing.”

He sighs. Shifts a little on his feet, “I-“

“Would certainly not say that, miss Blake,” a crisp voice interrupts. And, to both his surprise and relief, Matron strides over – her very highest heels on, a slight smile on her face like she’s inwardly marvelling at the stupidity of the people she has to work with, “in fact, I would say that you have the gift of possibility. Which may well be as far away from nothing as it is possible to get.”

“Who-“ Stacy stutters, and then glances at him suspiciously. He can hardly blame her, after the past few weeks, “who’s the walking fortune cookie?”

“This is Matron, my direct superior,” he explains, carefully hiding a smirk. Judging by the curve of Matron’s lip, she probably spots it anyway, “and, if I am reading her correctly, she may just have an offer that will change your life for the better.”

“Now who sounds like a fortune cookie?” Matron purrs, and turns back to Stacy before he can do more than send her his most polite smirk, “we were very impressed by your behaviour on this mission, Miss Blake.”

“Uh,” Stacy says, looking slightly confused and not a little frustrated, “which part? The one where I hid alien tech, or the one where I got one of your best agents shot?”

“Agent 37-“ Matron starts, and then notices his glare and makes a face, “well, maybe we should refrain from insulting him when he is lying injured in an ambulance. Despite those tiny mistakes, over the course of this week you have shown great ingenuity and a frankly admirable attention to detail. Both of those are traits highly prized by Spyral.”

“Thanks...” Stacy’s eyes narrow, Stacy frowns just slightly, “what are you trying to say?”

“Miss Blake,” Matron smiles, and he recognizes the expression on her face as something close to kindness, “how would you feel about becoming an agent of Spyral?”

“...You want to _recruit_ me?” Stacy blurts, staggers a step backwards and stares between them with eyes so wide that it’s a miracle they don’t fall out of her head, “you want to get me out of here, after all that I’ve done?”

“One of our more recent recruits used to be a cannibal, miss Blake,” Matron offers, and gives her sunniest smile, “we tend not to obsess about the past at Spyral, but rather look forward to a glorious future built by all of us working together as one. Do you accept our proposal?”

“I-!” Stacy starts eagerly, and then hesitates for a second – turns slightly towards him, like she trusts him, “but what about Billy?”

“Billy will have to undergo psychological evaluation,” he offers, and is surprised by how easy he finds it to hold back the rage from his tone. Maybe he is finally growing as a person, maybe Dick Grayson has a lot to do with that, “but...”

“No matter the outcome,” Matron nods, sends him the slightest smile, “we will not leave him to fester here. You need feel no more guilt for him, Stacy. You can be free.”

“Free,” Stacy breathes, and in her eyes he sees his existence reflected. The long years of being trapped in a life that he didn’t choose and could not bear, the sudden freedom of realizing the whole world at her feet, “then... If that’s the case, of course I accept. Of _course_.”

“Excellent,” Matron smiles, and nods over her shoulder, “agent fifteen is waiting over there, ready to take you to a secure location. Make your goodbyes, and you can leave immediately.”

“I-“ Stacy says, voice wavering with emotion. And, to his intense surprise, turns to him, “I don’t know what to say.”

“Then say nothing,” he smiles, surprised at how easily it comes, and steps forward – touches his hand to her shoulder, because he knows very well that a hug would probably go disastrously, “just know that there is nothing to forgive, and that I am pleased for you. I am sure that you will be absolutely amazing, no matter what path you choose.”

“I- _thank_ you,” Stacy sniffles, and smiles at him. Takes a watery step back, and forwards towards freedom, “can I just ask you one more thing, before I go?”

“If you must,” he offers fondly, well aware of Matron’s attentive eye behind them. Like a spider, a remarkably attractive one but eight-legged nonetheless.

“Are you and Dick actually married, or...?”

“I...” He says slowly, and actually hears Matron _snicker_ besides him – a brief expulsion of air seemingly designed to raise all hackles in her general area, “I will tell you that information when I discover it myself, I am afraid.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Stacy giggles in reply. And turns brightly on her heel – strides towards the future without a single glance back.

“So,” Matron purrs, right into his ear. There’s a smirk in her tone, and he finds himself oddly unsurprised at his surprise. The last few weeks have apparently been dedicated to ripping him out of his comfort zone in the most unexpected and irreversible ways, he does not expect the universe to cease such behaviour now, “you destroyed the technology.”

“Not deliberately,” he answers, as politely as he can, and turns to face her – her, and the obvious amusement on her face, “and I did save an agent’s life in the process.”

“An agent who almost died partially due to your oversight,” Matron reminds him, but continues not to look particularly annoyed. He likes to think that he knows her well, by now – the look in her eyes is as close as she gets to actual fondness, “you are off active duty for two weeks, consider your behaviour in your own time.”

“And Dick?” He can’t resist asking, even as she arches a slow eyebrow at him, “I mean... Agent 37? What about him?”

“He will be off for exactly the same amount of time, and should be in his quarters when we return to base tonight,” Matron gives him an enigmatic smile, turns elegantly away. From her, it’s almost as good as an encouraging clap on the shoulder, “fuck this up, Agent One, and I will have to actually punish you. Be warned.”

Oddly enough, he doesn’t have to be.

 

\--

 

He hasn't climbed this ivy for many years now, not since Alia used to live in this building, but it is like what riding a bike apparently is for most people. A grasp there, a kick here and the building is easily surmounted. It is nothing, for him. It is nothing, not with what lies ahead.

Dick is in his room, as Matron promised. He lies on the bed, and stares contemplatively up at the ceiling. He looks well, if a little understandably tired. His hair is just as dark as ever, his eyes are just as blue and he manages to make even useless contemplation look an act divine. He is... Captivating, truly and deeply. And he senses, somehow, that if he crosses the line between them there will be no going back - he will be Dick Grayson's forever, for better or worse.

He doesn't hesitate, only carefully balances on the windowsill and raps against the glass. Once, twice.

...And so is treated to the rather unique, and incredibly amusing, sight of Dick Grayson clumsily tumbling off his bed. Landing on his hands and knees and looking around wildly before he spots the cause of the disturbance, "Tiger?"

"Are you alright?" He asks carefully, and remains hanging on the edge - waiting for permission, as is only fair after the ways he has behaved over the past few weeks, "you were recently shot in the stomach, I have it on good authority that such a thing can do quite some damage."

"I got better," Dick smiles. Hesitates for a second, watching him out of the corner of his eye, "you made me better."

"How could I do anything but?" He asks, kindly, and keeps waiting...

"You can come in, if you want," Dick says hesitantly, and scrambles up from his tumble on the floor. Watches him, wide-eyed and so hopeful that it almost hurts, as he jumps off the sill and into the room, "sorry for the mess, it's just..."

"You've messed your room up?" he frowns incredulously, turns on his heel to take in the entire room, "in four hours?"

"...It's just I wasn't expecting you," Dick finishes stubbornly, and stares at him until he looks back around, stares deep into those ever so blue eyes, "you know. I thought you'd never want to see me again, after the mission."

"I thought," he admits, struggling with the ball of complex emotion in his chest - the thousand things he never thought he'd feel or say, "you'd never want to see me again after all the things I said to you. I hope that we were both wrong."

"Tiger," Dick breathes, and crosses the carpet to him in a few steps - looks up into his eyes, so brightly that a lesser man would weep at the sight, "I forgive you, I want to see you."

"You shouldn't," he whispers, but at the slightest shrug of Dick's shoulders wraps his arms around the man - holds him close, so much closer than he ever thought he'd be allowed to get, "but..."

"You want to see me too?" Dick asks, eyes sparkling with mischief.

And all he can do is nod. Hold him closer, so much closer until the only thing in the world is the two of them standing together with their lips so very close.

"That's the thing, really," Dick says, and smiles right up at him - forgiving, accepting in a way that he has never deserved but desperately wants to get used to, "if, even after everything has been said and done, you still want to see each other then nothing else matters. If we've faced the worst, and are still standing here like this... Well, maybe we're meant to be together after all."

"Dick," he whispers, helpless.

"Tiger," Dick smiles in reply.

And when they kiss, full on the mouth and with their arms wrapped firmly around each other, it feels like coming home.


End file.
